


The Story of a Life

by carmenta



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Rice
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-07-01
Updated: 1999-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:36:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmenta/pseuds/carmenta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is a story, and why should somebody tell his personal history to anybody else?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story of a Life

Why are stories told? To entertain the audience? To pass the time? To let others know more about oneself? Every tale tells more about the narrator than what is truly said; observe his choice of words, his grammar, his accent, and you will be able to see where he has spent the last years, where he was born. Telling a story is telling your history, no matter if it is a fairy tale you choose to narrate or a scientific theory. Listen to the words itself, ask yourself why the raconteur used them to express himself.

Still there are things that cannot be known through mere observing of speaking patterns, of the words themselves. The plot you will only understand completely when you know the whole story; if you miss a single sentence, you miss details that blur your understanding. But why would anybody want to know a tale that thoroughly? Is it not fascinating to find new details every time you read a book again? Have you not sometimes wondered why you could not remember reading a line the previous times you had the book in your hands?

What everybody craves are dreams; and stories can provide you with them. Happy dreams, wicked dreams, nightmares, the variety is endless. Sometimes imagination can be frightening, or it can bring the solution you so badly needed to solve a problem. The ability to fantasize is a dangerous weapon if properly used; those who play through countless schemes in their heads before actually doing anything are lethal compared to those who use their logic thinking to decide what to do. Logic is good, but dreams are better, they are unpredictable, flexible, adaptable.

Never has a leader stayed in control who was not able to dream; it is vital to inspire those you control by telling them phantastic tales of what you want to accomplish, or of the glorious tradition your reign has.

History is the longest story ever told, and the only one that counts. The old believe of the Teutons and Normans, that three wise women spun the thread of time of the lives of all beings, has sometimes seemed incredible to me, but there lies truth in it. In the years to come you will maybe see this for yourself, even if you shake your head now to hear of such superstitions.

Why do you want me to tell you my story? What interests you? The way you approached me that night in Belfast after stalking me for nearly a week was nothing short of arrogance. You should have seen yourself, in your clothes so carefully chosen to blend with your surroundings; worn jeans, a sweatshirt of a modern designer. The perfect image of a young man, and still the general appearance was ridiculous. I cannot say why, maybe it was the fact that I know how old you really are. To see you in the uniform of youth is absurd.

I did not invite you to come and sit down next to me. You did not ask if I wanted to be alone. Has it ever crossed your mind that what I wanted that night was solitude, and not company? You asked if you might sit down next to me on the low wall that circled that little fountain, and when I did not answer, you took this as a yes. Oh, you were polite, of course, never would you forget your manners.

When you began talking of your quest to collect the history of our kind, to write down our lives, our tales, I wondered what you want to do with it. To publish best-selling books as Lestat and others have done you do not need to have the stories told to you. You could make them up, create exactly what the audience wants to read, the mixture of romance, horror and darkness they expect of such books. Why would you need the real stories?

I do not care if you think I do not trust you. Maybe that is the truth, I do not know. Your past is not something that will earn you my sympathy; I, as every other being in the world, detest being observed. You and your comrades did nothing else, you collected our lives in your files, examined the households we left behind on our wanderings. In the name of your curiosity you became grave robbers, stole what belonged to us only to store it in your vaults. Our possessions were left to moulder; did you never think that those things might be our treasures that remembered us of times long gone, of beloved persons long dead? You never asked.

Now you leave a notebook behind for me to write my story down for you. Even a ballpen you gave me, how considerate. Enabling me to start writing at once, that is what you did, and what you expect of me. What would you want to hear? My mortal life, or rather my time as a vampire? What holds the greater fascination for you? I did not ask you what exactly it was you expected me to tell, all you said was that I should write what comes to mind.

Will I write my story for you, that was what you asked in your polite way. Will I write down every word of it into this book with the ballpen you gave me.

The answer is no.


End file.
